


The Bastard King

by funkytoes



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Feels, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkytoes/pseuds/funkytoes
Summary: A comforting night with a stranger on the eve of the march to the Battle at the Black Gate has left Princess Lothíriel with a child. Little does she know that this stranger is the new King of Rohan, Éomer.





	1. On the Eve

She stole away an hour later. It was only in the early hours of the day that she was able to find isolation, and thereby, relief.

She leaned against the wall of the empty corridor—seemingly the only place in all the Houses of Healing that were not occupied by makeshift cots and dying men.

She shuddered despite herself, void of even the energy to berate herself for her foolishness.

What had she been thinking, staying behind? She should have left with the woman and children when she had the chance—when her uncle told her to, and thought her to have. But she had been stubborn, staying behind, unbeknownst to her uncle, and father and brothers. And those of the Houses of Healing who recognized her said nothing, for they knew it was hopeless now for her to escape.

She had wanted glory, in the beginning—to take part in the fight for the future, even in a small way. To _help._

She rubbed her tired eyes with calloused fingers. She had no right to be here—nor the stomach for it either. She had lost count of the men she had witnessed bleed out, because supplies were scarce or their wounds too great. Men who suffocated on their own blood, and collapsed lungs.

Men whose legs and arms had been been or needed to be severed off. Men who stared aimlessly at nothing, unable to speak or move, all life except their very breath gone from their body and souls. Men who cried out in the night, in pain and fear, their distraught voices still ringing in her ears.

And it was not over.

The remaining men would leave for the Black Gate tomorrow—where they would fight one last battle. A desperate attempt to stave off the enemy. It was a foolish move. Everyone knew it. She had no doubt that it would be over soon. And not in the way the Healers assured the dying men of.

Soon, she thought, the enemy would march again on Minas Tirith, and they would all die.

There would be no need for Healers then.

She shuddered again, feeling bile rise into her throat, threatening to escape, and she slid down the wall to sit on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. She had to get back to the fray again—there were more men to be treated. But she was not sure she would be missed. She was hardly any help, except to bring food and water and clean bandages when asked.

She tucked her face between her clenched knees, hugging tighter, trying to find comfort in her own embrace. She was foolish. She should have gone with the women and children, perhaps even gone back to Dol Amroth. Perhaps even have stayed in Dol Amroth.

At least there she would have died in her own home.

Arlena was a capable woman, but she may have needed help to protect Dol Amroth while the lords of Belfalas were at war. But Lothíriel had been in Minas Tirith, representing Dol Amroth with her brother when war became too imminent to travel. And when the masses had been sent to Lossarnach, she had stayed. Against her better judgement.

She wondered what her father would say if he could see her now?

Would he scold her?

Would he, in a rare occurrence, raise his voice in anger at her foolishness?

She realized the strange noise she heard was her own quiet sobs, and try as she might she could not bring herself to stop.

She heard heavy footfalls, and scrambled to her feet, her chest still heaving. She reached under her veil to wipe the tears from her face, though they were replaced quickly.

A man stood near her—wearing simple, but clean clothing. A Rohir. She had seen her fair share of them after the battle. This one looked untouched, and she wondered briefly if perhaps he did not take part in the battle. But the haunted look in his eyes told her that though his body was unharmed, he was not untouched by the horrors he had seen and experienced.

They stood, staring at each other, neither making a move. She had regained control of her breathing, but she did not trust herself to speak.

“Are you… alright?” he asked, looking at her in concern.

She realized she should respond, and so after a long moment, she nodded slowly.

“This is your first time seeing anything like this, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice deep, a little hard, but not unkind.

Another nod.

He sighed, looking down at the ground. She wondered if he would say anything, but he did not. Finally, after a few moments of silence, he said, “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

Surprised, she looked at him in curiosity. Nodding again, they sat down beside each other, backs against the wall. He leaned back, the back of his head resting against the wall, and stared at the ceiling.

She watched him, until he finally looked at her out of the corners of his eyes. “What is your name, girl?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but remembered that she could—or rather, should—not answer truthfully. She did not want news that she was still in the city to reach her father and brothers. Though she ached to see them, to embrace them one last time before the left to their doom, her pride staved her. “I’d rather not say,” she answered. “And I’d rather not know your name.”

He did not seem surprised or insulted by this. Indeed, he almost seemed relieved. It would be better, she knew, not to know this kind man’s name. She did not want to know the names of any of the men who passed through the Houses.

“Will you go with the men tomorrow?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I…” she began. “I do not know how I feel about it all. It seems to surreal. As if it is not truly real. I know it is… but there is so much I want to live for—and yet I know they will never happen.”

“There may still be hope,” he answered, though in his tone she could hear there was little hope in him.

She shrugged.

“What things do you want to do?”

She hugged her knees to her chest again, and said. “So many things. I want to sail for an entire year—I want to eat lots of delicious foods from all over the world. I want to make friends with people from all walks of life, and all places.” She sighed. “And when that is finished, I’ll do what my uncle and father wish most for me and marry and have children.” She paused. “I doubt that will ever happen now,” she said, rather blandly.

He gazed at her. “You do not wish to marry?’

She exhaled hard through her nose. “It is not that I do not with to marry—or that I do not want a family of my own, it is more that… in doing so, I will be relinquishing my freedom to my husband. I do not wish for that.”

The man nodded, seeming to understand.

“I do want to find love, though,” she said. “And…I’ve never been. In love, I mean. I’ve never even been kissed.”

A kiss with a sailor’s son when she was nine summers old did not count, she told herself. But she didn’t fancy telling him about _that_.

He continued to gaze at her, and finally she turned her face to look at him. After moment, his hand reached for her veil, unclasping it and letting it drop away from her face. He studied her face, looking over every feature with intense eyes. She realized, after a moment, was he was going to do, and welcomed it.

He leaned towards her, as she reciprocated, his hands holding her neck gently, guiding her. His lips pressed against hers. It was sweet and chaste, and for a moment, she wondered if this was all there was to it, before she felt him deepen the kiss, searching for an invitation.

She gladly provided it.

When they separated, they were both breathing heavily. His eyes were filled with desire, and she did not want to stop. Her upbringing, her social and marital status, screamed at her to stay her own desires. To stand up and walk away and leave this handsome stranger. But she threw caution to the wind, knowing that she would, in all likelihood, never see this man again. And in all likelihood, she would be dead herself in not too long.

“There’s,” she said, her voice quiet and slightly breathless, “There’s a supply closet down the hall. It’s mostly empty now—no one would—”

He was on his feet quickly, pulling her up by the hands. He nodded, and she turned, leading by hand to the door of the closet, opening it and leading him inside. She searched for a lantern, and when she found one, she used the tinder and flint in her belt purse to light a fire within.

The man closed the door behind them, and for a moment she shivered, wondering if she should truly do this.

But what did it matter?

She turned to look at him, and for an agonizing moment, neither did anything. Until he unclasped his belt, lifted his tunic over his head, tossing them to the ground. As he removed another tunic, she watched with baited breath. The skin on his chest and stomach was paler than that on his face and hands, and was dusted with golden hair. He was broad shouldered, and far taller and muscular than her brothers or father was. She felt her insides grow warm at the sight of him.

After a moment, she realized he was waiting for her, so she undid her veil and let it fall to the ground as well, unpinning her hair from its tight knot, and letting her hair fall down her back in a long braid. As he removed his breeches, she took in a sharp breath, staring at what she had only seen glimpsed of. She swallowed. She knew the technicalities of what was about to occur, but now she was not sure if it was possible. She worked on unclasping her dress, before letting it, too, fall to the ground. She hesitated with her chemise, the nagging thought that this was a foolish idea crossing her mind again. But she threw the thought out of her mind—knowing that it was no less foolish than staying in the city during the war.

The chemistry fell to her feet, and she stood, shivering slightly though the air was arm. He gazed at her, eyes trailing up and down her body. As she slipped her shoes off, he approached her, a questioning look on his face. She nodded. She wanted this.

He took some blankets off the shelf and laid them out on the ground, before approaching her again. “Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said firmly.

He kissed her again, and slowly, they sank onto the blankets, and in those moments, they found peace.

She settled into his arms, when all was done, breathing in his scent. Soon, she heard soft snores, and knew he was asleep.

She was wide awake herself, although pleasantly calm and content. She felt safe, for the first time in months.

In the morning, this stranger would be off to war, and she would most likely never see him again.

But she was thankful for this night, though her honor was now tainted.

One last moment of hope before the storm.

* * *

 

It was two months ago, that she had suspicions, and another few weeks before she mustered up the courage to visit the midwife in Dol Amroth. She did not trust the family healers, for she knew they would inform her father, who was still in Minas Tirith, as soon as possible. But Doa was known for keeping secrets of this variety.

Her suspicions had been correct.

Her secret night with a stranger in a city she was not supposed to be in during a war she was not supposed to take part in had not only ruined her honor, but had changed her life.

For Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, was with child.

* * *

 

**To Be Continued…?**

Not the most original idea, I’m sure, but!! It’s fun :>

Anyway, I started writing this a couple years ago and I’ve decided to get back to it. Let me know if you’d like to read more!

I'm kinda nervous posting this cause it's the first time in a Looong time that I've posted a LOTR fic... as the only two other LOTR fics I've ever posted were crackfics I poorly wrote when I was around twelve (no really, someone on that livejournal site had actually made a whole post making fun of one lol) so anyway, feeling excited and a tad nervous to be finally posting LOTR fics!

Thanks for reading!!

P.S. Please excuse any inconstancies with the books... I can't claim to be an expert on Tolkien's works, so there's bound to be a few ;)

P.P.S. the title of this fic "The Bastard King" is a reference to Elfwine, their soon-to-be son, as obviously Eomer is not illegitimate. I just though The Bastard King sounded cooler than The Bastard Heir.

 


	2. To Wind and...

Éomer glanced over at Éowyn with a frown. His sister looked forlorn, which most likely was due to leaving her betrothed back in Minas Tirith. Faramir had wished to join them, but he was needed in the north, and Aragorn could not spare him now that Imrahil returned home.

Mainly, the weather was hot—much hotter than Éomer, Éowyn, or anyone in their personal company was used to. Éomer had visited the south of Gondor once as a child, but it was during the winter, and he hardly remembered it. “Your children will all be there?” he asked Imrahil, who rode to his right.

“Yes,” Imrahil said. “My three sons are there now, as is my daughter. My sister as well—though…” his lips quirked into a wry smile, but said no more.

His daughter. Rumor was that the woman was with child—conceived during the war. Éomer winced at the memory of finding out it had been one of _his_ men who had been the man to do it. Whomever he was, the man had been foolish beyond measure to sleep with a prince’s daughter. He could only hope the girl had been willing.

“Your daughter,” he said, realizing he had never spoken to Imrahil about his daughter’s situation. The older man seemed to prefer not to speak of it at all, and though it was the talk of Minas Tirith, it was hardly spoken aloud during civil conversation. Imrahil turned to look at him expectantly

Éowyn turned to face them, curiosity livening her features. “Yes,” she said. “Tell us about your daughter. She is a little younger than I, correct?”

“She is twenty summers,” Imrahil said, gazing forward with a frown. “She is very… spirited, I suppose, would be the way to put it.”

“I am glad she is raising the child,” Éowyn said, and Éomer and Imrahil turned to look at her in surprise. “A child conceived on the eve of battle is blessed to our people. Even those conceived outside of wedlock are considered so.”

Imrahil turned to look at Éomer expectantly, and Éomer nodded. “This is true.” _Though_ , Éomer added silently, treating a child of such a union, or its mother, as a blessing was hardly put into practice. Even in the Mark, such things were mostly frowned upon.

“Well, I’m afraid we do not share the same sentiment in Gondor,” Imrahil said. “My daughter is stubborn as well as spirited, and prideful—I’m afraid she was quite insistent on ruining her reputation.”

“I like her already,” Éowyn said dismissively, and Éomer’s lips quirked. Éothain, who rode beside Éowyn, shook his head slightly, chuckling to himself.

Indeed, Éomer himself was quite interested in meeting this… Princess Lothíriel. And he knew that Éowyn would not balk at the thought of fraternizing with a ruined woman.

His mind quickly shifted from the princess to the young Healer he had met prior to leaving for the Morannon with. He had tried to find her when the armies returned, after the feasting and celebrating of Cormallan, but found that she was gone, and no one could tell him her name or whereabouts.

He shifted in his saddle slightly, and Firefoot snorted, sensing his rider’s unease. Imrahil had warned him to pack lighter clothing, but Éomer had foolishly not expected it to be quite this hot. To think that the lands farther south were even hotter…

His mind strayed back to the princess.

Imrahil had broached the subject of marrying his daughter—this had been at the celebrations of Cormallan, before Imrahil knew of his daughter’s discretions. Of course, it was out of the question now.

But he was interested in meeting her. When his friend had brought the subject up, Éomer had been drunk and had thought the idea brilliant. He sighed. He could have used the princess’ dowry, to rebuild Rohan, but he wasn’t aggrieved that he didn’t have to marry her.

He would not be able to marry her now, of course. But all the same, he was curious as to what the Princess Lothíriel was like, and find out what might have been.

* * *

 

Lothíriel smoothed out her dress, and Norwen looked at her with a smile. “You look lovely, Milady,” she said.

“Well, I can’t look too lovely at the moment,” Lothíriel replied, turning and giving herself a good look at her contour. It was seven months since the battle at Minas Tirith, and she could not easily disguise her stomach anymore from judgmental eyes.

It was only a pity that she was not allowed to be part of the welcome party. Though Arlena had wanted her present, Lothiriel’s elder brother Elphir had insisted that she stay hidden for a few hours. Many lords and ladies of Belfalas would be present to welcome King Éomer and Lady Éowyn, and Elphir feared Lothiriel’s presence might be a hindrance to them.

Lothiriel’s upper lip curled into a frown. She sat down. She fidgeted with her hands, before standing up and walking over to her bookcase and taking out a few volumes, but soon found those to be distasteful in her current mood.

She understood why Elphir, under her aunt’s orders, no doubt, would want her to stay out of the way while the greetings were made. The ability to reason, however, did not make the pain of being shunted away for the sake of propriety sting any less.

She drummed her fingers across her knees, cursing the fact that her bedroom faced the sea—and not inland, where the procession would be arriving. From the horns and trumpets, they arrived over three hours ago, and still no word came that she could go and introduce herself.

She would complain to her father about this. But perhaps he agreed with her aunt and brother’s decision. She was, after all, unseemly in all manners now. Amrothos and Erchirion had given an effort of a fight in her defense, but even they reasoned it might be best in the end. And she did not wish to see those bothersome old lords and ladies, or their gossiping daughters or threatening sons, if she truly considered it.

“I’m going for a walk,” she told Norwen, who started for her.

“Where will you go?”

“The shore,” Lothíriel answered, accepting a thin shall from Norwen, and wrapping her upper body in it. “Come, let us go.”

Norwen nodded, following her out into the hallway, a sentry detaching himself from his post to follow them. The hallways outside her bedchamber had no wall on the far side, only a stone railing, and opened into a large courtyard that rested in the midst of the Prince’s private family wing. She descended the grey-red stone steps down to the lower level, and led Norwen and the sentry, whose name was Ergion, to the rear doors of the castle. She would not attempt to exit through the main doors—as that would most likely cause scandal in and of itself. She scoffed to herself, pondering how she was going to insult the esteemed persons of Belfalas tonight. Perhaps not even them, perhaps it would be the King of Rohan and his sister that she would commit grave insult to.

Perhaps she would not even be permitted to be introduced.

But she wished to.

She wished to speak to them, and learn from them the culture and manners of the other half of her child. Perhaps they would know the kind stranger she had spent the night with in Minas Tirith. If she had luck. But would the pain be too great? For she would not be able to marry him. And perhaps, she did not want to. She hardly knew the man, after all.

Norwen helped her slip off her shoes, and Ergion stood alert a little ways behind them, as Lothíriel strode up to the clear water’s edge. Here, the water was calm—for the open sea could not touch this bay, except in the case of storms.

“Milady… your dress,” Norwen fretted from the shore, as Lothíriel strode deeper into the water.

“It does not matter, Norwen,” Lothíriel answered, turning to look at her maid over the shoulder, grinning. “No one will see me, anyway.” She breathed in a deeply, closing her eyes and letting the fog drift into her mind. Calm settled into her. “ _I shall away,_ ” she began, _“To open sea. To Wave and Oar. To Wind and…”_ she paused, unable to remember the rest of the lullaby.

She opened her eyes, and turned, walking down the beach, her dress drifting in the water around her knees, Norwen and Ergion following along the shore. Both looked rather anxious, but Lothíriel paid them little heed. She was tired of being thought frail and helpless. A poor wench who opened her legs for a stranger and ruined her prospects in life.

Ahead, she saw the dark figure of a horse and rider, and smiled. “Think you that is a rider of Rohan?” she asked, turning to face Norwen.

Norwen put an ear to her head, indicating she could not hear Lothiriel’s words.

Instead of shouting, or heading into the shoreline, Lothíriel instead turned her eyes toward the rider, and discovered that there were a few others along with him. Narrowing her eyes, she saw that there were four horses and riders. Odd indeed. She made her way toward them, easing herself through the water. Her dress was nearly drenched now—and though she was only as deep as her knees, the water was quickly seeping up her dress.

Soon, she could see the riders clearly, for they had turned towards her and headed her way, or more, towards Norwen and Ergion. Lothíriel did not know if they had spotted _her_ yet.

Lothíriel could now see that these were indeed riders from Rohan, for their steeds were like none she had seen, except from a distance as the men left for the Morannon. And the riders themselves were tall, and clad in clothes unfit for the south lands, and their hair bright.

She turned for the shore, picking up pace, but found that she had misjudged the horses’ speed, and now worried she might miss the riders entirely by the time she reached where they trod. The western sun shone clearly behind her, lighting their features clearly as she approached, and she put up an arm, calling out a greeting in their tongue.

The riders reigned in their horses, halting, and looking towards her. So they had not seen her, Lothíriel mused. The setting sun must have disguised her approach _._ Norwen and Ergion stopped before the riders, and they turned away from Lothíriel to speak to the newcomers. Lothíriel approached silently, but stopped short, as her eyes focused on a face in the party—a man. Tall, yes, taller than even her father and brothers, and proud, with long golden hair in a braid down his back. He wore fine clothes, and his horse was a stallion of dappled grey. Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat, as she realized why this man had caught her eye.

This man had not recognized her. He must not have. He was not even looking at her, speaking instead to Ergion and a fellow horseman beside him. Norwen turned, concern written on her features. “Milady?” she asked. “Are you well?”

Lothíriel shook her head, before taking a few shaking steps forward. The man turned his gaze from Ergion to her, and in that moment, she knew he recognized her.

For before her, sitting upon a kingly horse, was the kind stranger from the Houses of Healing.

The father of her child.

 _To Wind and Doom,_ the wind itself whispered in her ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter for now :) 
> 
> (Also, this story is a deviation story from canon/my personal canon. It'll follow canon as closely as I can manage, but it's not how I imagine Eomer and Lothiriel actually get together. It's mainly just a fun little story that I enjoy thinking about :)
> 
> ((Also, it goes without saying at this point that I do not share Tolkien's obsession with era-appropriate words haha. So if I use a word that was created/formed after the 15th century, or whenever Tolkien's cut off point was, welp, I ain't stressin' it ;)


	3. Chapter 3

Her breath seemed to be caught in her throat, and Ergion quickly approached her. “Milady?” he asked. He didn’t reach for her, but concern was written on his face. He looked between the riders and her, before glancing at Norwen, who stood frozen on the beach.

Lothíriel watched as the man dismounted his horse, and strode into the water, walking towards her with wide, shocked eyes. Behind him, one of his men quickly followed him into the water.

He stood towering before her, gazing down at her with disbelieving eyes. “You…” he murmured, reaching up and brushing his fingers against her cheek, sweeping away a few stray locks of hair.

“You’re alive,” Lothíriel said. She smiled, “I thought you might have died.”

He shook his head. “I searched for you but could not find you,” he answered. “And no one could tell me your name or where you had disappeared to.”

Ergion’s eyes widened as he seemed to understand the man’s relation to her. “Milady,” he said, reaching for Lothíriel. The man’s eyes swept to Ergion, frowning. Finally, he looked Lothíriel up and down, taking in her fine dress, the fact she was accompanied by a lady-in-waiting and guard, and… his gaze froze upon her midsection, at the swell there that could no longer be hidden.

He looked up at Lothiriel’s eyes, understanding settling deep within him. “You…” he said softly. He hesitated, and the man next to him gave a sharp intake of breath, seeming to come to the same realization. “You are Imrahil’s daughter,” he said. His brows furrowed slightly, gazing at her with a conflicted and tumultuous look.

The man beside him turned towards him and spoke in Rohirric, too quickly and quietly for Lothíriel to interpret. She gazed at both of them in confusion. “And who are you?” she asked.

But the man was now speaking urgently and angrily with the man beside him. “Please!” she said, taking a step towards him, “Tell me your name! I won’t—“ she glanced at Ergion and Norwen. “The three of us will swear not to tell my father—if you do not wish him to know. I just want to know your name.”

The man turned to look at her, blinking in surprise. “What?”

“If you are afraid of punishment,” Lothíriel answered, “I will keep it a secret. After all, now only… five people know. I’m sure we could all keep secret that you’re… Just… what is your name?”

“Éomer” he replied.

A small gasp escaped her, her eyes widening, and she took a staggering step away from him, and felt herself lose balance. He lunged for her, reaching out and grasping her arms, steadying her. “Are you alright?” he asked, concern etched across his face.

She nodded, shrugging out of his grasp. “You are—how?”

“What?” he frowned. “Are you surprised to find out my name?”

“Not your name—but who you are!” she exclaimed. “You are the king of Rohan!”

Éomer’s companion shifted uncomfortably.

“Well,” Lothíriel said, glancing at the setting sun behind them. Words seemed to have escaped her. She looked back at Éomer. “Let none of us discuss this further outside of the five of us, until we can—know what to say.”

“That is a fine idea,” Éomer’s companion said. “I am Éothain. Come, My Lord—we should get back to the palace.”

Éomer nodded, before turning to Lothíriel and offering her his arm. She stared at it for a few moments, before shaking her head. “I shall return by the East Gate,” she said.

“You do not want to be escorted back?” Éomer asked, frowning.

“No,” she shook her head. “There is no need for that. Come, Ergion, Norwen, let us return to my chambers. I will… see you tonight at the banquet.”

“When will we speak next?” Éomer asked, as she began wading towards the shore.

She paused, turning to look at him. “Tonight, if we have a chance—or tomorrow.”

He set his jaw, striding toward her. “I will not keep this secret from your father,” he said.

“You mean—you wish to announce that—you’re the father—” she could hardly believe his words. Here was the king of Rohan, telling her quite plainly that he would tell her father he and she had… intimate relations. Did this mean he would… _accept_ their child? It seemed almost too good to be true.

“How low an opinion must you have of me, My Lady,” he said, a look of barely tamed anger stiffening his features now, “To believe that I would not take responsibility for my actions?”

She blinked. _Responsibility._ Ah, so she was merely a misbehaving wench in his eyes—a mistake. That, at least, made more sense than a _king_ accepting a bastard as his first-born child. If this child _was_ his first-born child.

“Of course, My Lord,” she said, “I understand. Let us go to my father now—no,” she shook her head suddenly, “When I have… made myself more presentable.” She motioned to herself, and she watched as his gaze traveled down her, taking in her appearance. She flushed when she saw his eyes darken with what she recognized as desire. It was the same look in his eyes when he had taken her in his arms over seven months ago.

“Ergion will fetch you when I am ready,” she said. “We will go to my father after we have discussed how to… break the news to him.”

“Can I not escort you back?” Éomer asked. “Surely—”

“This is my _home,_ Éomer King,” she answered. “I do not need an escort. Come, Ergion, Norwen. Let us go.”

She turned and strode from him, willing herself not to shake as she headed towards the shore. She made it to the family quarter’s courtyard before she collapsed against a statue, gasping out. Norwen rushed to her side, fretting, and Ergion turned, beginning a shout for a healer, but Lothíriel waved him to be silenced. “I am well,” she said. “I am merely shocked.”

She straightened. “Quickly now.” She ascended the steps and returned to her bedchamber, and Norwen helped her into something dry, while Ergion fetched Éomer.

“My Lady…” Norwen said. “Did you know that the father was—”

“Of course not!” Lothíriel replied, staring at Norwen with wide, frightened eyes. “How _could_ I have known? We never told each other our names. Though… perhaps I should have guessed… there are not many men as tall as he is, or as noble.” She crossed her arms. “I cannot believe that I did not _guess._ Oh, what will I tell Father?” she sank onto a sofa. “What if I’m expected to marry him?”

“Would that not be for the best, My Lady?” Norwen asked.

Lothiriel looked up sharply. “This child is my freedo—”

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Lothíriel stood quickly—and nodded for Norwen to answer it. Ergion stood there. “They are waiting for you in the library,” he said. “As you requested.”

“Good,” Lothíriel answered. She paused, and took a small, steadying breath. “Come with us, Ergion, if you don’t mind.”

He nodded, following closely behind. She waited at the library doors, hesitating to go in, before the doors opened of their own accord and she stood there, blinking up into the eyes of Éomer. “I was wondering when you would arrive,” he said, motioning for her to enter.

“I—needed a moment to gather myself,” she replied. “You can hardly blame me—this has been quite the revelation.”

“There is no need to tell me,” he said.

She strode into the library, and Ergion closed the door behind her. Norwen stayed close to her, eyeing Éomer with dislike and a touch of fear. The man was certainly threatening enough. He stood a bit away from them, stone still, not seeming afraid in the least, but had a forced carefulness about him. Like the heavy calm before a hurricane, Lothíriel thought. How was this the same man who had comforted her that night over seven months ago?

“Well?” he asked. “Is there a reason we are gathered here in your family’s library—instead of getting to the point at the beach?”

She flinched slightly, glancing at Ergion, wondering if her guard could truly defend Norwen and herself from the king and Éothain. She doubted he would be violent. Not in her father’s house, at least.

“I did not know who you were,” she said, finally. “Otherwise I may have contacted you before now.”

“I gathered,” he said. He frowned. “ _May_ have?”

She shrugged slightly. “I’m not sure what I would have done. I would not have wanted to shame you or burden you.”

His brows furrowed at her words. Embarrassed that she had guessed so close to the mark, she continued. “You are under no obligation to tell my father this—and I will not tell him if you wish me to not.”

“Wish you to… not?” he asked, his expression leveling into one of bewilderment. Éothain glanced between them, confusion on his own face.

“I understand that things are tedious now that the war is over,” she continued. “Having an illegitimate child may… complicated things.”

He stared at her.

_How could he be so daft!?_ She thought despairingly. Finally, she resorting to not mincing words. “I understand if this is an embarrassment for you, and I am willing to keep the fact that you are… _the father,”_ she said those last two words quietly, so no one might overhear, _“_ A secret.”

His expression did not change, but his eyes widened slightly. He stared at her, before he blinked and took a step back. “You think I am embarrassed?”

“Are you not?” she asked, looking out the window.

“I… It is certainly not ideal—but to suggest that I would not accept this child, and want to care for it, is… is _insulting,_ Lady Lothíriel. Of course I will accept this child as mine. Publicly, too. You cannot possibly raise the child on your own—”

“I cannot?” she asked, turning to look at him, her eyes blazing. “You sound like my father and brothers, who wished me to marry the first young lord who would accept a whoring wife.”

“You’re not a whore,” Éomer said, calming down, or seeming to try to. “From what I hear there are many woman in your position.”

“And how many of them have you to thank for it?” Lothíriel retorted.

He blinked.

“I wish to know if this child will have siblings,” she said facetiously, placing a hand on her belly.

“None, that I am aware,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “But none of this will matter after we are married.”

Norwen took a sharp intake of breath through her nose, looking at Lothíriel with wide eyes. It was Lothiriel’s turn to stare at Éomer. Was he… _proposing_ to her? Here and now? Not hours after they officially met? Her mouth dropped open.

“I am unavailable,” she said, almost laughing at the incredulity of the situation. “My Lord Éomer, I did not wish to meet you in secret to ask for a wedding, but to give you the opportunity to avoid a unsavory situation. But in either way, I am not in the market for a husband.”

He stared at her. As did Éothain and Ergion. Norwen looked pale. “You do not wish to marry?” he asked, frowning at her. “You wish to… remain… _unmarried?”_

“It is not unprecedented for a young woman to remain unmarried—however unusual,” Lothíriel replied. “If anything, this child has granted me my freedom. No one wishes to marry me now.”

“I do—”

“ _Wishes_ to, My Lord,” she interrupted. “You do not _want_ to marry me. And I will _not_ marry any man who feels he must do so out of obligation. That can hardly be the start of a healthy and happy marriage.”

“What are you saying?” Éomer asked, looking slightly pale.

“What I am saying is that I will _not_ be marrying you, My Lord. But I am flattered you would stoop to offer.” She sighed. “I believe we will be late for supper—let us go separately, so no one suspects the truth.”

“I will not lie to your father—”

“There’s no need alarming him before he’s had a chance to eat a good, hearty meal,” Lothíriel answered. And no doubt her father also would press upon her to marry the king of Rohan. She wanted some time to prepare herself to refuse a second, or more, times.

Eomer turned to speak to Éothain, and in that moment Lothíriel took the chance to look Éomer over. He was tall, very tall—as tall as Elessar at least. Broad-Shouldered, well built, with golden hair much longer than was popular in Gondor. He was… just as handsome as she remembered, and a small, vain part of her regretted telling him she would not marry him. But she would stand her ground.

She would not marry a man who’s only interest in her was in resolving shame and obligation.

“Good day, Lord Eomer,” she said, curtsying, but the act was somewhat encumbered by the fact that she was heavily pregnant. She waited for him as he bowed stiffly to her, before sweeping out of the room. She was aware of his eyes on her back as she left, watching her closely, before she left his vision. By the time she reached her bedchambers again, she slumped into a chair, exhausted. “I am not sure I can attend the feast tonight,” Lothíriel said. “His mere presence drains me. How is he the same man, I ask?”

“He may very well be asking the same question of you,” Norwen answered. “He seemed ever so shocked at everything you said.”

“Well, I daresay a _king_ isn’t used to being jilted,” Lothíriel mused. “I feel sorry—I may have liked marrying him, and I think I could have grown to love him… but…”

“But what, Milady?” Norwen asked.

Lothiriel shook her head. “It would be too great a shame. I’ve always known I would marry for _love,_ Norwen. And this… this at the very least would be the worst kind of arranged marriage. He would be getting nothing out of it except my dowry and the knowledge that he accomplished his obligation to my honor.”

“But is your pride more important than your child?” Norwen asked. “Surely it would be best for your child to grow up with his or her parents married.”

“I would much rather my child grown up with separated parents who are civil than married parents who are uncivil,” Lothíriel countered. “And I cannot imagine any thus marriage being anything other than uncivil at best. After all, how could love grow from such a union?” Lothíriel slumped again, fanning herself with a hand. “Now I wish he _had_ been a commoner, at least then he would not have felt obligated to me. And I _might_ have thought him sincere.”

“You mean you would have married him if he was _not_ a king?” Norwen mused.

“I might have—but now that I’ve truly met him I think him entirely unsavory,” Lothíriel sniffed. “Unbecoming and _rude._

“To talk of marriage, before even _attempting_ at courting me. It was an insult. As if he expected me to throw myself at him like some dainty, helpless maiden. And to think he could not fathom I would be capable of raising the child on my own!”

“Can you, though?” Norwen asked, straightening Lothiriel’s bedcovers. “Can you?”

Lothíriel looked away from her maid. She had been pointedly ignoring that part for some time. She was not sure she was equipped or capable of being a mother on her own, but she had money, at least, which was more than a commoner in her position would have. She would be able to provide for herself. Perhaps she would move with her child from her father’s palace, to some cottage by the sea. With Norwen, and Ergion for protection. Far away where a bothersome and offensive king could not find her.

She sighed. _That_ would be too much to hope for. She rose and tidied herself up for dinner, before heading out for the evening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued…??
> 
> Éomer and Lothíriel get off on the wrong foot… ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Éomer watched as Lothíriel left the room. He felt as if he had just been punched in the gut… with something sharp and serrated. He turned to face Éothain, whose face was pale. “Éomer…” Éothain began, forgoing formalities. The situation seemed to require none. “With _Imrahil’s daughter—”_

“I did not know it was she!” Éomer began, his voice louder than it should have been. He closed his eyes, willing his temper to subside. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to wrap his mind around what had just transpired.

“How did this happen…” he muttered quietly to himself.

“I think we both know how this happened,” Éothain replied, in a somewhat dry tone. “The problem lies not in how the child was created, but in what is going to happen now. Princess Lothíriel does not seem keen on marrying you—or anyone else,” he added, still looking bothered by this fact. “But the fact of the matter is, if you can _get_ her to marry you—the Riddermark could use her dowry—”

“Dowry?” Éomer looked up, startled. The thought of the princess’ dowry had completely escaped his mind. Somehow now that did not even seem a priority in marrying the princess. “Yes… I suppose that’s… that would be useful. But at the moment I thinking of the _child,_ Éothain. What is going to happen to the _child?_ _My_ child, might I remind you.”

“Are we sure that the child is yours?” Éothain asked, a little skeptically.

Éomer sighed. “She would not have admitted it was, if it was not,” he said. “She has made it quite clear she wants nothing from me, and expects nothing.” His hand curled into a fist. How dare that woman! He did not blame her for the seven and a half months gone by—she did not know who he was, or where he was. But to deny him his right as a father! To care for her and the child… And how would a spoiled princess care for a child on her own? Any other woman might be equipped with a community and the resourcefulness to care for a child by herself. But a princess? Who was scorned by her peers? Who knew nothing of hardship and hard work? He was worried more for the safety of the child, then for Lothíriel herself. With a sinking feeling, he realized he would need to speak to Imrahil on this. After dinner. Éomer had still to get ready for the feast tonight, and Princess Lothíriel was correct in one thing: At least give Imrahil one more meal of ease before breaking the news to him. It aggrieved Éomer not to be honest from the start with his friend, but… for now, he would honor Lothiriel’s wishes.

He turned and walked from the room until he and Éothain reached the guest quarters. He stormed into the private sitting room where Éowyn was reading on a sofa. She looked up from her book, raising an eyebrow. “What has you in such spirits?” she asked, “You look like you could skewer someone at this very moment.”

She wasn’t wrong—and his squire, Cerdic, cowered before him. Éowyn however, looked more amused at Eomer’s obvious foul temper than anything else. A benefit of being one’s sister, Éomer thought.

“What is it?” she asked. “Did you see something you did not like while exploring the beach?”

“I will tell you about it later,” he gritted out through clenched teeth, walking towards the door that led to his own chambers.

“You can tell me about it now!” she called after him, but he shut the door behind him. He hoped Cerdic would not follow him straight away—he needed some time to himself to think. He exhaled softly, sitting down on a chair, and looked out at the sea. He stood up suddenly, walked to the tall, glass windows, and gazed shrewdly at the waters below, and out at the setting Western sun. Not far was where he and the princess met again… how he would have wanted it under different circumstances! He certainly would never have knowingly slept with Imrahil’s daughter… and how would he tell Imrahil the news? What kind of scandal would this spell for both Gondor and the Riddermark?

He only hoped that he would not lose Imrahil’s friendship… and that Princess Lothíriel would come to her senses soon.

* * *

 

“What _was_ it that has you so bothered?” Éowyn whispered, as they stood, drinks in hand, waiting to be allowed into the dining hall. “You still look like you are surrounded by orcs with poisoned arrows.”

He shook his head slightly. He wanted to tell Éowyn—needed someone he could trust to talk to about it, but this was neither the time nor place.

“Ah,” Imrahil said, walking towards the door, and Éomer looked up, blinking as Lothíriel entered the room. A few faces turned sour at her entrance, mostly lords and ladies that Éomer had no real interest in gaining the good favor with.

That is, if they were not the very reason he came here not two months after his coronation.

Imrahil kissed Lothiriel’s cheek, before she took his arm and let him lead her to Éomer and Éowyn. “My I present my daughter, Lothíriel,” Imrahil said, inclining his head in Éomer and his sister’s direction.

Lothíriel curtsied, as gracefully as someone in her condition could, and Éowyn returned the curtsy. “Lothíriel,” Imrahil said, “May I introduce the Lady Éowyn of the Riddermark.”

“A pleasure to officially meet you, Lady Éowyn,” Lothíriel said, nodding her head. “We met briefly after you awoke in the Houses of Healing, but I departed from the Houses shortly afterwards, so we did not have the chance to become better acquainted.”

“Oh!” Éowyn’s eyes widened, her mouth forming an ‘o’ of surprise. “I do remember you!” she exclaimed, her face livening. “How wonderful that we should be reunited. Tell me, how fair you?”

Lothíriel blinked, her eyes flickered to Éomer’s again, before looking back at Éowyn. She obviously was not expecting a jubilant Éowyn. The last time Lothíriel saw his sister she had been close to death—and not far from it in mind. “I am well,” Lothíriel answered.

“I am glad,” Éowyn said, smiling down at Lothíriel, who was a good few inches shorter than her. “I hope we can become good friends.”

Lothiriel’s eyes met Éomer’s again, confusion in them. _Ah,_ Éomer thought, she must be catching on that he had not told Éowyn the news yet. That Lothiriel’s child was _his._ She looked back at Éowyn. “I would love that, My Lady.”

“ _Éowyn_ ,” Éowyn said firmly, squeezing Lothiriel’s hand. “Call me Éowyn. We are to be cousins soon—we should be informal with each other, especially as friends.”

Lothíriel’s smile widened. Imrahil smiled as well, clearly pleased that his daughter had a new companion who did not scorn her current predicament.

“And may I have the pleasure of introducing his highness, Éomer King of the Riddermark,” Imrahil said, inclining his head respectfully to Éomer. Éomer gave a stiff bow, and Lothíriel returned it with a tiny curtsy.

Éomer offered his hand, knowing it was customary for lords to kiss the hands of ladies in Gondor when introduced (an act he had, unfortunately, had to become quite accustomed to, since every lord, lady, and other such person seemed intent on introducing their unmarried daughters to him.) It was a custom not generally enforced in the Riddermark, but it was damn near expected here in Gondor. She stared at his hand for some time, but did not accept it, and Imrahil frowned, clearly sensing tension between herself and Éomer.

“Lothíriel,” Imrahil murmured, quietly for Lothiriel’s ears only, though Éomer and Éowyn heard him. Lothíriel finally looked up at Éomer, and smiled. Not for the first time that day, Éomer was struck with how breathtaking she was. Just when he was about to retract his hand, she reached out with her own. Blinking in surprise, he took her hand, and kissed the air above it gently. He felt her slender hand shiver in his own, and she removed it far too quickly, causing Imrahil and Éowyn to frown at her in confusion.

“Excuse me,” she said quietly, before turning and walking towards her brothers.

“I… apologize,” Imrahil said slowly, watching her leave, before turning back to Éomer and Éowyn. “I have not seen my daughter in quite a few months—I’m not sure what has gotten into her as late.”

Éomer’s mouth fell into a thin line. Certainly _he_ knew what had gotten into the princess. In more ways than one. He felt Éowyn’s eyes on him, and glanced at her. There was confusion in her face, and he shook his head slightly to keep her from asking any questions in front of Imrahil. “Excuse me, my sister is beckoning me,” Imrahil said, bowing to Éowyn, and clasping Éomer’s arm gently, before heading over to Lady Ivriniel.

“What is the matter?” Éowyn hissed at Éomer. “No wonder Lady Lothíriel was so frightened of you! You were practically glaring at her the moment she walked into the room…”

“I was not,” Éomer replied sharply. “I was merely…”

He paused, closing his eyes. _This was not the time or place,_ he reminded himself. If only he could excuse himself and his sister for a moment to properly explain! He felt as though he would burst if he did not come out with it. It felt like dishonesty, keeping it secret from Éowyn and Imrahil. He turned so that no prying eyes could see him speak his next words. Quietly, so no prying ears could hear him either, he whispered, “I am… _responsible_ for her condition.”

Éowyn stared at him. “What?” she asked, blinking dumbly in surprise. “What condition--“ her eyes widened. “You mean,” she began, and he let out a small hiss of a hush. “How is that _possible_?” Éowyn demanded, quieter. “I mean,” she added, her face pale with shock, “How did you not know… before now?”

“I did not,” he replied. “Neither of us knew who the other was.”

“ _Well_ ,” Éowyn said, glancing at Lothíriel. “And what will you do? Have you told Imrahil yet?”

He shook his head.

She exhaled softly. “Perhaps this will be for the better,” she said. “If she marries you, her dowry will be useful for the Riddermark—and of course, it will be good for her and the child also—”

“She won’t have me,” Éomer said stiffly.

“What?” Éowyn looked at him in confusion. “What do you mean, she won’t have you?”

“I already offered to marry her,” he said softly. “But she refused.”

Éowyn blinked. “You… _when_?”

“This afternoon,” Éomer replied.

Éowyn frowned. “And how long have you known that she was… the woman with whom you…”

“We met officially this afternoon,” he said.

He looked at Éowyn in shock and indignation when she smacked him on arm with her fan.

“Fool!” she hissed. “No wonder she looked like she despised you! How could you propose marriage after barely knowing her? Things are different here in Gondor,” she added. “They are much more particular about courting and such.”

Éomer looked at her with a furious expression, feeling heat rise to his cheeks at her words. “But I doubt those unspoken rules apply when the woman in question is in _her_ condition.”

Éowyn shook her head, exhaling in frustration. She opened her mouth to retort when the gong was struck, and sent Éomer a look that told him the conversation was far from over. He was not particularly looking forward to being scolded again for acting like a brash brute. Just like the princess most likely assumed all his people were like.

He followed his sister into the dining hall, and was seated next to Imrahil. Lothíriel was, unfortunately, seated next to him on his other side. He glanced at her, then down to her lap, to see the swell there that he had not had the time to truly observe. He quickly looked away when she sent him an lidded look of distaste. Imrahil watched them, a crease in his forehead, before turning his attention to his left, where his eldest son, Elphir, sat. Imrahil was an intelligent man, he may just figure out the truth before Éomer had a chance to explain. If only Lothíriel had permitted him to explain things to Imrahil quickly… Éomer hated this deceit.

“How…” he kept his voice soft and, he hoped, gentle. “How are you feeling?”

He glanced at her, and found her gazing down at her lap silently. Then she looked at him. “I am well—as well as I can be,” she added. “And yourself?”

He nodded, taking a sip of his wine. “I am well, as well,” he said. “You…” he glanced around the table, “You won’t reconsider my offer?”

“Offer?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded. “For… you know… _matrimony,”_ he said the last word quietly, so hopefully no one could overhear.

She stiffened slightly. “No,” she said, equally as quietly. “I have not reconsidered. For I had not realized you had made any such offer—rather it seemed to me that you made a proclamation that such an arrangement had _already_ been arranged.”

He stared at her. “It was not…” he gritted out quietly, “My intention to _offend_ you, Your Ladyship—but rather to make right a situation that—”

“You clearly know nothing of women,” she replied, grabbing her own goblet and taking a sip.

It was his turn to stiffen in anger. His next words came out against his better judgement. “Might I remind you, _Your Ladyship,_ that you are in no position to—”

She turned to look at him, fury in her eyes. “I am in no position to… _what_ , Éomer King? Demand respect? Do not forget that you are… the _reason for…”_ But she did not bring herself to say what it was she was going to say, not without those around them perhaps understand her words.

He narrowed his eyes. “That is exactly why I am offering to—”

“Éomer.”

Éomer looked away from Lothíriel to Imrahil, who was watching them with a slightly confused—and concerned—expression. “Is everything alright?” he asked, glancing between Lothíriel and Éomer. Éomer set his jaw, and nodded. “The Lady Lothíriel and I were merely having a… discussion,” he said, remembering the word that the noble class of Gondorians liked to use instead of ‘argument’.

Imrahil’s eyebrows rose, and he looked to Lothiriel for her answer.

“Yes,” Lothíriel said, her voice pleasant. “We were discussing the history of Eorl and Cirion. It seems Gondor and Rohan have a few… differences in our histories.”

Éomer glanced at her, irritated that she was lying. Of course, this was not the place to even _talk_ about the child, and what needed to be done because of it.

Imrahil nodded. “Of course,” he said, though his eyes were still worried. He looked away, Elphir gaining his attention again.

“We’ll have to tell him eventually,” Éomer said, quietly. “He can’t discover it from someone else.”

“Perhaps we should tell no one,” she replied, taking a sip of her drink.

“Tell… no one?” he asked, turning to look at her with a horrified expression. “How in Middle-Earth would that be possible?”

She shook her head slightly, before helping herself to some dinner. “We will discuss this later,” she said.

“And when will we tell your father?” he asked, watching her with a careful look.

“As I said,” she said, not looking at him and instead gazing serenely ahead of her, “We will discuss it.”

His jaw worked angrily, but this, he had to keep reminding himself, was neither the time nor place, to discuss such things. Not if he wanted to minimalize the scandal for both her and himself. He could not believe that the snobby princess sitting next to him was the same, sweet young woman he had slept with in the houses of healing. If there was not proof, he would have insisted they had been different women. But there was proof, and he did not want to deny it. Why would he? He was no coward.

But this would complicate things… and he only hoped that he still kept Imrahil’s friendship by the end.

And he hoped the princess would see reason soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> This is a bit of a slow burn story, so while Éomer and Lothíriel aren’t getting along great now, that isn’t the premise of the story (they’re merely just getting off on the wrong foot, as I mentioned in the last chapter, and they’re both being a tad defensive.) So don’t worry! They won’t be antagonistic towards each other forever :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> See you soon!


	5. Chapter 5

Éomer gazed at Lothíriel, wondering if he should seize his chance. Amrothos had just left her side, and so she was alone for the moment. He might not get another chance to speak with her privately before the evening was over. And he was determined to tell Imrahil tonight.

“Princess,” Éomer said, stepping up beside her, careful not to stand too close.

“Éomer King,” she answered, not looking at him.

“The evening is almost over,” he said, quietly, his eyes shifting to Éowyn, who was now watching them, before looking back at Lothíriel. “I believe we should inform your father soon.”

“My father?” she asked, her eyes widening. “I… I suppose so. But surely, Lord, you would not rather…”

Éomer glanced at her, and when she did not continue, he frowned. “Would not rather _what_ , My Lady?”

“Would you not rather… _not_ tell my father?” she asked, finally looking at him. There was something akin to worry in her eyes, and… fear? Fear of what? Surely not of _him._

His frown deepened, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, a shade of color rising to her cheeks. “This may… cause problems for you. Surely it would not be best to pretend that we had never met before? There is no reason to… Complicate things by bringing you into the mix.”

He stared at her. “Do you mean to say,” he asked, slowly, dumbfounded, “That you do not expect me to take responsibility?”

Her eyes flashed at his unfortunate choice of words. “I mean to say,” she said. “That I do not expect anything from you, Your Lordship. Please do not think I desire anything from you or am trying to haul in a bountiful catch. If you do not wish to have the… _responsibility_ of a harlot princess on your hands, and a bastard child, you do not have to _take_ such responsibility.”

He continued to stare at her. He had to work to keep his jaw from hitting the ground as the severity and meaning of her words hit him. “Do you think so little of me,” he said, slowly, quietly, and unable to truly believe that she would think such a thing of him, “That I would _not_ take such responsibility?”

“I would rather you not,” she answered, now watching her father talk to her aunt. Lothíriel’s face was stony when she said her next words. “Then think me and my child a burden.”

He blinked. Without thinking of what it might look like to onlookers, he reached out and touched her arm. She turned to look at him, wide-eyed. “You would never be a burden to me, nor would our child,” he said softly. “In the Riddermark it is different.”

She blinked back at him. “I…” she began. Then she took a shuddering breath. “Let us talk to my father,” she said, shifting slightly so that her arm drew out of his reach. “Tonight, after we have naturally retired for the evening. We will tell him the truth then.”

Éomer nodded, and watched as she strode away.

* * *

She knocked on the door, and heard the voices inside still into silence. She opened the door and stepped inside.

“Lothíriel,” her father said, smiling at her. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

She glanced at Éomer, and realized that he had yet to tell her father the truth. Good.

“I came because we have something to tell you,” she said, stepping inside and taking the seat in a seat next to Éomer’s.

“ _We_?” Imrahil asked, glancing between them, his smile faltering.

Éomer nodded, his face pale, but determined. Lothíriel was aware of Éomer glancing at her, and when she refused to speak first, he spoke. “I wanted to speak to you sooner,” he said, addressing her father. “But… we thought it would be best to do so after dinner.”

He paused, before continuing. “I suspect you have already guessed what I am about to say, but… before we left for the Black Gate, I… I slept with a young Healer woman, from the Houses of Healing. I did not realize, however, that the young woman was… Princess Lothíriel.”

Imrahil’s face was impassive, gazing at Éomer with an unreadable expression. Lothíriel, however, felt as though her soul had been torn in two, when her father finally turned his eyes to her.

Suddenly, it felt as if she had yet to tell him the news of her pregnancy all over again. The pain of disappointing him the first time came flooding back, the wound in her heart reopening.

“I see,” her father said finally. “And the two of you… did not know who each other was?”

“No,” Lothíriel said quickly. “We had no knowledge of each other’s names or titles.”

Eomer leaned forward. “I am sorry, Imrahil,” he said. “You and your sons may challenge me, if you wish. I deeply apologize that I have put Lady Lothíriel and your family into this situation. I expect to take full responsibility.”

Her father raised his eyebrows. “You mean to say that you wish to marry my daughter?”

Lothíriel stiffened, turning to give Éomer a warning look.

Éomer glanced at her, and a look in his eyes told her he didn’t _truly_ want to marry her. That, at least, gave her hope.

“You are taking too long to answer, the both of you,” Imrahil sighed. “To be honest, I feel as though the forces at work may very well _wish_ you two to marry. But if you _both_ do not wish to…

“I wish to speak to my daughter in private,” Imrahil continued. “Éomer, we will talk more of this in the morning.”

Éomer nodded, standing up, before looking down at Lothíriel. She did not know what he was about to say to her, but he never said it, and soon bowed and left her father’s office.

She heaved a breath, and looked back at her father, her eyes prickling.

“Daughter,” Imrahil said, his face stern. “I did not wish to ask you in front of him, lest you answer falsely out of fear, but I will ask you the same question I asked you when you first told me of the child, and I want an honest answer.

“Did Éomer force himself on you, all those months ago?” Imrahil paused. “He is a close friend, and I would trust him with my life,” he continued, “But I will trust your word above his. Tell me the truth.”

“He did not!” Lothíriel said, springing out of her seat in anger. She breathed heavily, before sinking into the chair again, a hand on her belly. “He did not force himself onto me,” she said, fiercely. “I do not think he is capable of such an act, Father. I was completely willing. In fact, I… I think I instigated it.” She felt a blush rise to her cheeks at the admission.

Imrahil sighed in relief. “Good,” he said. “I would never expect such an act from Éomer, but… I would only trust your word on the matter.” He sighed again. “And you are sure that you will not marry him?”

She paused, giving the impression that she was at least considering, before nodding. “I am sure, Father,” she said. “He is handsome, and I am sure he would make any woman a fine husband. But… I do not love him. And I cannot marry a man I do not love. And…” she hesitated, before continuing, “I do not think I would make him happy, and I know he would not make me happy.”

“Well,” Imrahil said, heaving a breath, “I suppose that’s that.” He sat there, gazing blankly at something behind Lothíriel. Finally, he sighed, and spoke again. “And what of the child? Will you raise it in Rohan? Or here in Dol Amroth?”

Lothíriel blinked. “Why would I raise the child in Rohan?” she asked.

“In Rohan, children born out of wedlock can become heirs,” Imrahil said, “As long as they are a lord’s firstborn. Éomer is unmarried and as far as I know, he has no other children. If this child is a boy, and Éomer claims him as his child, he could claim the boy as his heir as well.”

Lothíriel felt a chill sweep over her. “I…” she stopped, fear gripping her. “I had not thought of that—not fully,” she said. “Surely… surely the people of Rohan would not accept a… an illegitimate child as their king?”

“They love Éomer, and many would accept any child of his as the heir,” Imrahil said confidently. “But in that case, would it not be better to raise the child in the country he would rule?”

“We do not even know if it is a boy,” Lothíriel said, her face paling. But… she was reminded, Doa the midwife had said she thought it was a boy. In fact, the woman had sworn it was so. But it could still be a girl, Lothíriel thought desperately.

Move to Rohan? Live there amongst strangers in a culture that was foreign to her? In her mind she clung desperately to her hopes of living quietly by the sea, in a small cottage, with only those who cared about her and her child to keep her company. “I am not sure, Father, that Éomer would want that,” she said. “Surely he would not rather marry a suitable woman and her children be his heirs?”

Imrahil inhaled, his eyebrows rising as he did. “Perhaps you _should_ marry him and then your child would be a suitable heir,” he said. “But,” he put up his hands in defeat as she began to protest. “I understand, daughter, that you want freedom. And in this child, you have gained it—in a very small way. But this child could become your prison. You may never be able to marry, not at your own rank. Your life will be filled with hardships. Are you…” he looked at her softly, “Are you fully prepared for what it will take to raise a child on your own?”

“I have my dowry,” she said, stiffly. “I can live off that.”

He shook his head. “No, child,” he said. “Do not touch your dowry. I will support you, and pay for anything you wish. Save your dowry for when you might marry.”

It was her turn to inhale sharply. “I will live off my dowry,” she said firmly. “If you truly wish to continue to support me financially, you may give me what my inheritance would be when you die. I have decided that I wish to move from Dol Amroth—I do not feel welcome here.”

At the saddened look that entered his eyes, she hurriedly clarified, “Not you or my brothers, but… from everyone else. I will move to the seashore somewhere--or perhaps I _shall_ dwell in Rohan. But not here.”

Her father did not say anything for a short while, the saddened look not leaving his face. Finally, he spoke. “At least stay until the child is born,” he said, his brows furrowing. “Childbirth is dangerous, and it would be best to give brith with experienced healers available to aide you.”

She gave him a small nod. “I will wait a few months after I give birth,” she agreed. “Then I will take what money I am due, and I will make a life for myself. What Éomer decides to do is his own matters.”

She rose from her seat. “But this chid is _mine_ before it is his,” she said. “And he should remember it.”

“I’m afraid everyone will remember it,” Imrahil said softly. “Even if he should claim the child as his own, and make him or her his heir, there will always be those who will doubt his choice, and doubt you. Are you prepared for that?”

Her mouth fell into a thin line, before she nodded. “Yes,” she said.

But, for a strange reason she could not decipher, she did not feel she was.

* * *

 

Éomer stared at the broth that was served for breakfast, before glancing up to see Erchirion glowering at him.

“I’ve been informed by my father,” the prince said, “that I am not to challenge you.”

“You may if you wish,” Éomer replied. “But I cannot guarantee a victory for you.”

Erchirion’s mouth twitched. “Marry my sister, and make this right, and we won’t have to find out _who_ would win,” he offered.

“There will be no talk of that,” a voice said from the doorway, and Lothíriel strode into the room. She sat down next to her brother. “Éomer and I will not be marrying.”

Éomer frowned, but did not contest her statement. “And there will be no challenging, either,” she said firmly. “My honor is my own, and if _I_ do not think there is any need to defend it, then you should not.”

Erchirion scowled. He glanced at Éomer, and shrugged. Éomer heaved a sigh, before standing up. “I am to meet with your father,” he said, directed to no one in particular, but intended for the princess.

Both prince and princess stared at him blankly, and finally, feeling too awkward to say anything else, Éomer turned and walked from the room. When he finally made it to Imrahil’s study, he found that he was eager to speak to Imrahil.

“Sit, Éomer,” Imrahil said, motioning for Éomer to sit down. Éomer did, gladly.

“I want to first ask your intentions for my daughter, and her child,” Imrahil said.

Éomer felt a quick punch to the gut at Imrahil’s words. The prince certainly did not beat around the bush. “I offered to marry her,” he said. “But she refused.”

“And she will likely continue to do so,” Imrahil said. “I do not blame you for the night you spent together. We all thought we were going to die, at some point, in the near future. But… that does not mean that I am not worried for my daughter’s _current_ future.”

Eomer nodded slowly.

“My daughter values her freedom—and sees this child as her… chance for freedom.” Imrahil exhaled softly. “She does not realize how difficult child rearing is, and to do so on her own… I have to admit, after my wife died, I… may have sheltered my daughter a little too much—even spoiled her on the occasion.” He sighed. “Alas, I fear she is woefully unprepared for what a life of hardship may bring her, a life away from the pleasantries of high society and the protection that it brings. Certainly, the life she has chosen is such a life. I wanted to ask you, however, what you plan to do if the child is a boy.”

Éomer frowned. “Whether the child is a boy or girl, I will claim it as mine,” he said.

“So you will wait till your wife bears you a son to claim an heir?” Imrahil asked.

Éomer blinked. He had not thought of that. “No…” he said softly, “If Lothiriel’s child is a boy, I will claim him as my heir. Unless I should marry and my wife give birth to a son, in which case _he_ would be my heir.” He paused, “But I have no intentions of marrying anytime soon, and having an heir would be good, considering I have none at the moment, and there are still many battles to fight and conflicts to resolve.”

Imrahil nodded. “Yes, I agree,” he said. “Though my daughter may not wish to move herself and the child to the Riddermark.”

Éomer had not thought of _that_ either. He had merely assumed Lothíriel and the child would be moving to the Riddermark eventually. “I suppose I will have to respect your daughter’s wishes. But my grandfather lived for some time in Gondor—so it is not without merit that my heir could as well.” He did not add that the people of the Riddermark did not _particularly_ enjoy Thengel being entirely inclined towards Gondorian culture, rather than that their own land. As such, Éomer rather hoped Lothíriel would change her mind, and come to live in Rohan, so their child would be a true Eorlinga in the eyes of his people.

Imrahil nodded. “Indeed. I wish things had not turned out this way—but here they are. Word is already spreading—I daresay all of Dol Amroth will know by a few days. Soon, even those in Minas Tirith and Rohan will know—I say in two months at most.”

Éomer nodded his agreement, wondering what Faramir and Aragorn would say of the matter. He was not looking forward to either reunion.

“Well,” Imrahil continued, “This is not the only reason I have requested that you meet with me this morning. I wanted to discuss the matters of the meetings we are to hold with the merchants this week, before you return to the Riddermark…”

* * *

 

Lothíriel could _feel_ their jealousy, and hate, as she walked past the two young ladies who glowered at her. For some reason, the father of her child being a king made everyone despise her more than they already did. At least the father was not Elessar, she thought, amused. Though he was married, so that would far more complicated.

It was strange… she went from being a popular young lady, to being the scorn of the Gondorian court—all in a night. But she would not take it back. She was glad for this child. Her father—brothers—aunt—and everyone else, thought her a fool. But for her part, she knew this child was meant to be in this world. Not only as her freedom from the confines of society, but for some other purpose as well.

And she _was_ glad for the child—she often dreamed of motherhood, of having a family. But to do so at her rank would often mean an arranged marriage, loveless and often unsavory. She had no desire to have either in a marriage.

She walked out onto a balcony, looking out at the city of Dol Amroth. Éomer was busy attending meetings, hammering out arrangements with merchants and lords. All in a desperate attempt to save the Riddermark.

That, at least, she had to admire. Éomer had refused charity from Elessar, for Gondor’s new king had offered to give food and gold and wood to their saviors. She smiled softly. Perhaps she would fit in with the Rohirrim. At least she would be amongst others as hard headed as she was.

Alas that Éomer had not been some common farmer of Rohan… she _might_ even have considered him then. But he was a _king_ —and an infuriating king, to boot.

“Is it always this hot?” a voice asked from behind her, and Lothíriel turned to see Éowyn standing in the archway, fanning herself.

“This time of year, yes,” Lothíriel said, straightening. Éowyn walked over to the balcony, leaning against the railing. “Normally it does not bother me, but… right now…” Lothíriel rested a hand on her stomach, giving Éowyn a wry smile. “It is much more difficult to handle the heat now.”

Éowyn’s eyes dropped down, to Lothiriel’s stomach. She smiled softly, before saying, “May I…?”

Lothiriel blinked, before nodding. Éowyn shifted, moving away from the balcony and stepping towards Lothíriel. She placed a hand on the silks of Lothiriel’s dress, pressing her hand onto the curve of her stomach. Éowyn’s smile widened. “You realize this child will be my niece or nephew,” she said, her hands dropping away. “I intend to spoil them immensely.”

Lothíriel’s eyes widened. “So you know now, too.”

“My brother told me,” Éowyn said. “Last night at the banquet. I was… surprised.”

“I suppose you hate me, now” Lothíriel said, wryly.

“Why would I hate you?” Éowyn asked, smiling kindly at her. “There are many young women in your position—and many in which the father is from my land. You just happened to be a princess. And if I’m honest, I’m glad my brother happened in beget a child with _you._ It is far less complicated than if he had gotten a commoner woman or a prostitute with child.”

Lothíriel was about to say that she wasn’t so sure that last part _wasn’t_ true, but decided not to inflame the conversation. “What is it like? In Rohan?”

Éowyn glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “Have you never been? No… I suppose you wouldn’t have, I would have remembered.” She cocked her head, thinking. “I’m not sure how to explain it—unless I should sing it in song. But I think you would like it there. Will you not come?” she turned to face Lothíriel, holding out a hand. Lothíriel blinked, before accepting Éowyn’s hand. “My brother can be brash and bull headed sometimes,” Éowyn said, squeezing Lothíriel’s hand. “But he is a good man, and would be a wonderful father.”

Lothíriel blinked again, surprised at the sudden turn of conversation. She dropped Éowyn’s hand and turned away, looking out over the city. “I do not doubt you,” she said. “But I…” her shoulder’s sagged. “I had never expected to see him again. Now that he is in my life—and a _king_ , no less… I find it hard to…”

Lothíriel laughed, shaking her head. “I find it difficult to imagine my newfound freedom.”

“Freedom?” Éowyn prompted.

“I know it sounds silly, but… though I have longed for a family of my own, and even a husband, I was… cursed to be of a rank that knows little of…” Lothíriel sighed. “I do not wish to be a pretty thing—a possession—to do what I am told and to go where I am told to go. I wish to own and live my _own_ life.”

“I understand,” Éowyn said softly. There was a contemplative look on her face.

They stood there in silence. “Promise me,” Éowyn said, turning to face Lothíriel. “That you will visit Rohan when the child is old enough to travel? He or she should know his homeland.”

Lothíriel breathed in through her nose, before sighing. “I promise,” she said. “But I won’t marry your brother.”

Éowyn frowned. “What’s wrong with my brother?”

Realizing her mistake of words, Lothíriel quickly began to apologize for her brash words, and Éowyn burst into laughter. “Don’t worry,” Éowyn said, clapping Lothíriel on the arm. “I understand that too. My brother will have little trouble finding a wife—but I can’t expect you to _want_ to marry a man you do not know. Especially now that I know you a little better. But he would make a fine husband,” she said, looking at Lothíriel seriously. “If you got to know him, I’m sure you’d change your mind.”

It was Lothiriel’s turn to shrug. “We’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued…
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!!
> 
> See you soon!!


	6. Chapter 6

He had faced down thousands of orcs, fought the Uruk-hai, and believed all hope was lost for his entire world, and _yet,_ _this_ was when he stood shaking in his boots. He would have laughed at himself if the situation had not been so uncomfortable already.

Lothíriel stared at him, waiting for him to ask the question he came come to ask. There was hesitancy on her face, and he knew she assumed he was going to propose marriage again. He could also see on her face her answer to _that_ question. He swallowed.

“May I…” he began, slowly, carefully, before changing tactics. “A child of this…stage,” he said, motioning to her mid-section, “Often… moves, does it not?”

Lothíriel blinked, confusion replacing wariness. “I beg your pardon?”

_Béma,_ but the woman was making this difficult.

“Are you asking, My Lord, to… _feel_ if the child is moving?” Lothíriel asked, as if understanding his question after long deliberation.

He nodded, color rushing to his cheeks as he tried to appear unflustered. Lothíriel continued to stare at him, the confusion on her face shifting to something he could not decipher.

“I see,” she said, frowning. “Well, the child is not moving much at the moment—but… come here,” she motioned for him to step closer to her. As he did so, she moved away, walking towards a sofa at the other end of the room. She sat down slowly, as if the act was somewhat difficult, and patted the seat next to her. “Here,” she said. “Sit here.”

He sat down, slowly as well. Somehow he felt as though if he moved suddenly Lothíriel would change her mind, and this sudden good humor he found her in would disappear.

She grabbed his hand, and placed it on her belly. He blinked, before giving her a questioning look for permission. At her nod, he slowly ran his hands along the curvature of her stomach, marveling at it.

_Inside there,_ he thought with wonder, _was his child._

The thought that he would soon have to leave to return to the Riddermark, and Lothíriel would not be joining him struck him like a punch to the teeth. When would he get a chance to _see_ the child?

“Doa—the midwife,” Lothíriel said, startling him out of his thoughts, “Often tells me to speak to the babe. You can, if you’d like.”

He glanced at her, feeling slightly self-conscious, before leaning down and whispering in his own language. His words quickly shifted into a Rohir lullaby, and just as the verses were ending, he felt something against his hand. A slightly fluttering _thump_ underneath Lothiriel’s skin.

Startled, he straightened and looked at her in concern. “Well,” she said, smiling softly. “That was a big kick. The babe must have really like that song—or,” she added, musingly, “The babe really _disliked_ it…”

At his worried glance, she laughed, before giving him a playful nudge with her hand. “I jest,” she said. “I think the child did like the song—“ she visibly bit back a grin when he could not help the relieved look on his face.

“I don’t like being made fun of,” he said, leaning away from her.

“I don’t mean to make fun,” she replied, still grinning at him. “It’s just…” the smile fell away from her lips, and she looked contemplative. “I did not expect you to…”

He tilted his head slightly, as he moved away from her as to give her space. “Did not expect what?” he prompted for more.

“For you to be so tender,” she said, a little sheepishly, a blush rising to her cheeks, darkening them slightly. “To be honest, when I realized who you really were… I had just assumed you would want nothing to do with the babe.”

“I must have a terrible reputation,” he said, laughing weakly. “Did you _truly_ think that?”

“Well, you have only spoken of your ‘duty’ as a father,” she said, shrugging slightly while adjusting the skirts of her dress. “I assumed this whole thing is a hindrance to you.”

_Father._ He struggled to reply, for his mind fixated on that word. “Lothíriel…” he began, before clearing his throat. “Your Ladyship, I… I did not conduct myself well when I first learned of you upon arriving in Dol Amroth. When I returned to Minas Tirith after the Black Gate, I searched for you.”

She looked at him, alarmed. “Why?” she asked, a little breathlessly.

He shrugged, shaking his head, unsure of the reason himself. “I will never think of you or our child as a burden,” he said. “Or a hindrance. In Rohan, women who have children without a husband, either by death or fate, are often taken care of by those around them. Fellow villagers and such. If you were to move to the Riddermark…”

She looked away. “ _Would_ I be welcome there?” she asked. “The child will look more like me, rather than a child of the Rohirrim,” she added. She held out a hand, laying it next to his own on the velvet surface of the sofa, to show the contrast of their skin. “No doubt your subjects will think I was… trying to ensnare you with a child that was not even your own.”

“But is _is_ mine,” he said, firmly. “Is it not?”

“Of course,” she said, turning slightly pink at the implication of his question.

“Then I will claim him or her as my child, and if it is a boy, he will be my heir,” Éomer said firmly. “Unless or until I should marry, and my wife bear me a son.”

She nodded slowly, her brow creasing slightly. “Your sister tried to convince me to live in Rohan with the child.”

Éomer felt a rush of affection towards his sister. She always did have his back. “She did?”

“She almost convinced me” Lothíriel admitted. “But… what happens when you do have a wife? Surely she would not want me to live close by—would that not make her feel…”

“That,” he interrupted, “Is a long way off yet. I have no thoughts of marriage presently.”

“You seemed pretty confident _we_ were going to marry before,” she said, giving him a sly smile, her eyebrow quirking upwards a little.”

He took in a deep breath, before exhaling a laugh. “You will never let me live that down, will you?” he asked.

“Never,” she informed him. “For as long as I live.”

“Well,” he said. “Will it put your mind at ease if I swear to never propose marriage to you again?”

She made a show of thinking his over, before turning to him, a serious expression on her face. “I, Lady Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, accept your promise.”

He grinned, and held out his hand. She shook it firmly.

“I shall be leaving tomorrow—I suppose you shall be happy to see me go,” he said, as they stood up. He held out a hand and aided her to a standing position, his other hand on the small of her back to give her support. She smiled at him appreciatively.

“I’m not sure,” she said, with a strange expression on her face. “I won’t be _unhappy_ when we meet again, I think.”

She walked away, leaving him behind, and he felt something strange shift within him. Aside from leaving his unborn child behind, he was… _sad_ , he supposed, that he would be leaving Lothíriel behind as well. This encounter gave him hope that goodwill could grow between them.

He walked away, and as as he did, he harkened back to their conversation. Though his promise to never propose marriage to her was partly in jest, he could not help but feel he was playing against his fate.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TO BE CONTINUED…
> 
> Thanks for reading! Sorry this chapter is so short! Next chapter… Éomer arrives in Rohan… and gets some visitors who have something to say about his current parental predicament ;)


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